BOSS: A Stepbrother Billionaire Romance

  A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance

  By Victoria Villeneuve

  Table of Contents

  Boss: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Declined. Insufficient funds.

  I tried to hide my embarrassment from the cashier as I mumbled an excuse about how my direct deposit should have gone into my account. She just gave me a bored look and asked if I was still going to buy the items. I dug out $2 from my purse and handed them over, my face red. I grabbed my no-name pasta and jar of red goop labelled as tomato sauce and left the grocery store.

  I knew I was running short on cash until my next unemployment check came in, but I didn’t think I was that low on funds.

  Slowly making the ten minute walk back to my apartment, I put my groceries in the single kitchen cupboard and looked around. Calling my apartment shoebox-size was being way too kind to shoeboxes. I could walk ten steps from the front door to the back wall; the ratty, stained old couch that doubled as my bed took up most of the room. My laptop – the only luxury I owned – was on the tiny coffee table, and the bathroom to my right was such a tight fit that if I ever wanted to close the door to pee I had to go into the shower stall to make the room to close it.

  It’s not exactly what one expects a girl who went to one of Boston’s most exclusive private schools to live in, but hey, it was my home. And it was way better than the alternative.

  Unfortunately, there were parts of it that weren’t so great. It turned out living in New York City on your own, without being in contact with any friends or family, wasn’t the easiest thing in the world.

  I left home went I was seventeen. I had just graduated from high school, with great grades from the Moreton Academy in Boston. One of those fancy schmancy private schools, you know, with Ivy crawling up the walls and teachers with British accents. Field trips to Yale, the latest-and-greatest equipment, that sort of thing.

  The rest of my life wasn’t quite so posh.

  For two years I’d been living hand-to-mouth in Seattle. Working minimum wage jobs, living in this tiny apartment, barely having enough money for food. My mom tried calling me for the first few months after I left, but eventually gave up. I didn’t want to talk to her, not after how she’d treated me.

  A year ago I’d started working at a local grocery store. It was good work. It was easy. All I had to do was ring customers through and occasionally stock shelves. I made a tiny bit more than minimum wage, my boss was actually not a horrible person, and I didn’t want to die every time I knew I had to work like the hellish restaurant job I’d gotten before the grocery store.

  Unfortunately, three weeks earlier I was laid off, since apparently business was not doing well. My boss told me he was sorry, and I understood, but I hadn’t had any luck finding anything new since, and the $200 a week I was getting in unemployment was not getting me very far.

  I put some water on the stove to boil and collapsed onto the couch, closing my eyes. Trying not to think about the fact that my rent was due in a week, and there was absolutely no way I was going to make it. Trying not to think about the sixteen resumes I’d dropped off in the last two days and had yet to get a single call back. Trying not to think about the fact that I might never get out of this poverty hole, trying not to think about what my future was going to be like. At this point I just had to think about the cheap no-name noodles and tomato sauce I was going to eat, and then the next episode of Person of Interest that I was going to watch online.

  I swore I was going to buy a Netflix subscription when I could finally afford it.

  The water began to boil and I immediately dumped some pasta in, not wanting to use up more power than I had to. I wondered how long I could get away with not paying the bill before the company disconnected me.

  Nuking some pasta sauce in a bowl, I listened as the microwave whirred away. A few minutes later my sauce was hot, the rotini cooked, and I even scrounged up a bit of cheese to grate on top from the back of the fridge. I sat down at the computer and loaded up the video streaming site I’d found, ready to watch a bit of TV and forget about all my problems for just a little while.

  Of course, first an ad played.

  “You all know him as America’s billionaire badboy. But does Kiegan Hunt really have bigger balls than us mere mortals?”

  I almost choked on my pasta as the camera cut to a shot of a man in his mid-twenties, with blonde hair that had that sexy just-got-out-of-bed look, an upper body whose huge muscles were covered in tattoos and a smile that, despite everything, made me want to melt.

  “Tune in every Tuesday at ten on NBC to watch Kiegan Hunt and one random person take on the same challenge, and see who comes out on top.”

  The camera changed to a montage of two people taking on various challenges: driving a car off a parking garage and into a pile of cardboard boxes, eating some sort of insect, diving off a cliff in Hawaii.

  The ad only lasted for thirty seconds, but I knew it had ruined my plan to just relax. I hadn’t thought about or seen my stepbrother in two years, but a lifetime’s worth of bad memories suddenly came flooding back.

  Chapter Two

  The first time I saw the Hunt estate, I was absolutely star struck.

  I was fourteen years old, in grade nine. For as long as I’d lived, my mother had been single. I didn’t know much about her life before I was born. I knew my father left when I was two, my mom was seventeen when she had me so the fact that he was around at all was already something, and I knew my mom worked a lot, so much that I didn’t see her a lot of the time.

  She was a model, and an actress, and worked whatever jobs she could in between to make ends meet. I knew she went to New York City a lot to work. I had at that point grown into my skin enough to know I was never going to look a lot like her. Her grandfather was from Egypt, and she had perfect almond-shaped eyes, black as the night, with perfect olive skin and jet black hair.

  I was a brunette, but my skin was a lot paler, and I was a lot more awkward looking. I would look at myself in the mirror at night and pray to God that in my late teens I would grow into my looks, maybe look a little bit more like my mom. I could also stand to lose a bit of weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but I knew that one was up to me and not God, though I did ask Him for the willpower to avoid the corner store between school and home that sold a bunch of cheap candies for 5 cents each.

  My mother always told me that I was born with brains, and that I would get my looks soon enough. She was right about one of those things, at least. I was always good at school, I always did my homework, and my grades were pretty good. It helped that I really liked to read. It was a good way to escape the reality that I lived in a pretty poor family.

  Then one day, everything changed. My mom told me she was getting married. I had no idea she had even been seeing someone. I just thought she was working more.

  “He’s a great man, Tina, he’s going to take care of us. He wants to meet you, and so you’re going to come to dinner with us at his home next week.”
<
br />   “What? Where is this coming from mom? How long have you been seeing someone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  At fourteen I was definitely a bundle of emotions and finding out that my mom was engaged to some guy I’d never even met was way too much to absorb at once.

  “Relax, honey. I wanted to wait until I knew it was really serious before telling you, since I didn’t want you to get your hopes up about anything.”

  “Why would I get my hopes up? We’re fine without a man, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are, darling. We get by. But I love this man, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

  “Fine. When’s the dinner?”

  “Next Tuesday. Look, I know you’re probably not the biggest fan of this idea, but it’ll get better. I promise you’ll like him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Elton.”

  “Elton? That’s totally an old dude name.”

  “I’ll let Elton John know you said that.”

  “He’s old. He’s got to be what, sixty?”

  “Fine. Maybe not the best example. But Elton Hunt is a very nice man, and I want you to give him a chance.”

  “Wait. Hunt?”

  “Yes, as in that Hunt. So be on your best behaviour.”

  “Holy shit mom, you nabbed yourself a rich dude!”

  “Manners, Tina.” My mom frowned at me this time.

  “Fine, I’ll be good. I promise.”

  “I know you will. Thanks honey. I’m going to go to bed.”

  With that she kissed me on the forehead and left me with my thoughts. The Hunt family was one of the most famous in the country. They were basically the Kennedys, two of them were in Congress and the Senate, and none of them had been President. Yet. And my mom was going to marry Elton Hunt? The man was in charge of the entire family fortune, he was known as the dealmaker of the family, the one who made all the money they earned to make more money and get more influence.

  Holy shit, I’m going to be able to buy tons of awesome stuff was the first thing that popped into my head. Sure, I didn’t go to the best public school in town or anything, and my mom did her best, but it was pretty rare for me to get actually nice new clothes or things like that. The first thing I’d hoped was that Elton Hunt wouldn’t want his new stepdaughter to dress from stuff she got at the thrift shop. Typical fourteen year old, right?

  * * *

  The day of the dinner my mom came home earlier than usual to get ready.

  She ran from end to end of our small apartment like a Roomba, aimlessly trying to make sure everything was perfect. I put on my nice dress and shoes, then spent the rest of the time studying for my math test the next day. After all, Elton Hunt might have money, but I still needed good grades.

  At exactly ten past four we headed down to the lobby where a sleek, black BMW sedan was waiting for us. A man jumped out of the car and opened it for us, and while my mom got in like the perfect woman she was, I’m pretty sure I stood there gaping at how awesome this was for a minute before realizing I should try and do the same as my mom and getting in myself.

  The seats were so soft, so plush, so comfortable. So much better than the seats in the odd taxi I’d been in, or my friend’s parents’ cars. I couldn’t stop stroking the leather, and while my mom redid her makeup, I just took in the atmosphere of this car.

  The drive to the Hunt estate in Weston only took about half an hour, and when we finally got there, I felt my jaw drop once more.

  We pulled through a security gate where the driver entered a code to get the gates to open. The driveway was at least three hundred feet long, lined with maple trees whose light brown and red leaves were just starting to fall gently onto the road in front of us. When we got to the end of the driveway, we were in front of the most amazing home I’d ever seen.

  A cross between the old world style and the new, we pulled up past three full-sized garages, in front of a huge mahogany building that looked like a version of an old English estate home, but way more modern.

  Luckily for me, I was so starstruck by the size of the house – it was bigger than my entire school, that much was obvious – that I didn’t make my first social faux-pas of the night by getting out of the car myself; instead I didn’t notice until the driver came out and opened the door for me that I was just looking out the side window of the car, wide eyed and in total awe of what I was seeing.

  I’d read about places like these in books, I’d seen pictures of them on TV and in movies, but there was still a part of me that never really imagined people actually lived like this. Until now.

  I barely realized that I was on my tip-toes the whole time, on edge, trying not to make any sudden movements or do anything that would draw attention to me. This wasn’t a situation I was comfortable with. This wasn’t me. This was rich-people life, and I wasn’t a rich person.

  My mom went up to the front door, and I followed sheepishly behind her, simultaneously trying to look around at everything while also trying not to make it obvious that I was staring.

  The front door opened noiselessly as we arrived on the stoop. That had to be magic. There was no way there was someone sitting there waiting for people to come up and opening the door for them.

  As soon as we entered, a man in a suit greeted my mom with a nod. I barely noticed him though; instead every single inch of the incredible foyer captured my attention, it was like something out of a Disney movie. The mahogany hardwood floors went perfectly with the light orange walls and white elaborate cornices. A staircase lined with plush scarlet carpet led to the upper levels, and enormous rugs gave the whole room a cozy, warm feeling despite the enormous size and obvious wealth that had gone into it.

  “Ms. Ressler, welcome. And this must be your daughter,” the man greeted us with the most stereotypically high class English accent. I smiled nervously.

  “Yes, this is Tina. Tina, this is Mr. Andrews. He’s the man in charge of all the staff here, if you ever need anything, you can ask him.”

  “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Andrews.”

  “And you as well, Miss Ressler,” he replied with a small bow. I wanted to giggle into my hands, this was all so formal, but I figured that would probably be frowned upon and tried to put on a serious face, like I understood the gravity of just being in this house. He continued: “Mr. Hunt is currently in his study. Miss Ressler,” he added, referring to me, “his son is currently in the yard, if you wanted to meet someone your own age.”

  “That sounds great,” my mom pitched in before I had a chance to answer. “I’ll go down to the study and see Elton, if you could take Tina down to meet Kiegan.”

  “Of course, Ms. Ressler,” he replied, and before I knew what was happening my mom’s heels were clicking on the hardwood floor away from me, the sound getting softer with every passing step, and I was by myself with the butler in the middle of the most amazing room I’d ever stood in, in the home of one of the country’s most famous families.

  “If you’ll follow me, Miss Ressler,” Mr. Andrews told me, leading me towards a hallway on the left.

  Even the hallways in this place were elaborate. There were old portraits on the walls of people I assumed must have been Hunt ancestors, going back to what was obviously the 18th century.

  “So the Hunts were some of the earliest Americans?” I asked Mr. Andrews as I noticed the date on one painting – 1769.

  “Yes, the family has been here since the 1720s, when George Hunt came to discover the New World. His son William was instrumental in beginning the foundations of the movement that eventually led to the War of Independence, and it was after Massachussets and the rest of the thirteen colonies became the United States of America that the Hunt family truly became a household name, as it is likely that without George and William Hunt, the independence movement would never have received the steam that it did.”

  “Wow,” I whispered, slightly awestruck. Being in this house, among these people, was like really being a part of hist
ory. I suddenly felt like I didn’t belong, like I was some kind of impostor who should go before making an idiot of myself. I didn’t have a chance to, though, as Mr. Andrews led me out a large set of French double doors and into a perfectly manicured backyard.

  “Young Kiegan Hunt should be out there somewhere. I can help you find him, if you’d like.”

  “Oh it’s fine, thank you,” I replied. “I can find him, it’s a nice day out.”

  With that I sprang into the warm sunshine of the late afternoon onto the grass so springy it felt like I was walking on pillows.

  I made my way away from the house, not really realizing the true size of the estate. Strangely enough, I never saw a single sign of another person.

  “Kiegan?” I called out, wondering where the Hunt son was. I had been hoping for someone my own age to hang around with, but only the birds answered, chirping away that they were leaving soon to go somewhere warm for the winter.

  “Kiegan?” I asked again, moving in slow circles, looking around. After what must have been twenty minutes or so I gave up. The sun had been steadily dropping in the sky, and twilight was on its way. I made my way back to the house, and it wasn’t until I was within the warm embrace of the walls that I realized how cold it was getting outside at night.

  I wandered through the halls until I found someone, a woman in her 20s who had obviously been cooking given the amount of flour on her outfit.

  “Excuse me,” I asked shyly.

  “Yes?” she answered, looking surprised.

  “Um, I was supposed to go out and find Kiegan Hunt in the backyard, but he’s not there. Um, I just sort of thought I should let someone know, in case he’s in trouble or something?”

  The girl laughed. “Yes, he probably is in trouble.” My shocked looking face must have made her realize I wasn’t nearly as nonchalant about this fact as she was, as she quickly added, “don’t worry, Kiegan Hunt goes off on his own fairly regularly. I’ll let Mr. Andrews know for you.”

  “Ok, thanks,” I mumbled, and the girl rushed off.